Seymour hadn’t minded that part. What he had minded was being obliged by his sister to stand embarrassingly on some cold shop corner accosting the passers-by.
He was remembering this, wryly, when it suddenly came into his mind where he had seen before the woman in the group who had seemed familiar. She was Koskash’s wife.
There was nothing unexpected in the medical report. Lomax had died from a single heavy blow to the back of the head. The body had then been thrown into the water. Its condition was consistent with its having been in the sea for a week to ten days.
There was some ancillary bruising but that had probably come from contact with rocks after the body had been thrown in the sea. There were no wounds of a sort to indicate that Lomax had put up a struggle, that he had not been taken completely by surprise. This was a preliminary report: perhaps the final autopsy would reveal more. It was good of Kornbluth, however, to send it him.
He put the report down on the table. It didn’t add much to what he already knew. What seemed clear was what had been clear without the report: Lomax must have been killed near the water. You wouldn’t want to lug a body too far. That meant he must have walked down to the sea after leaving the Edison. Why had he done that? To freshen up after having been in the hot cinema, take a second, late passeggiatta as it were? Or for some other reason: to meet someone, perhaps. For what reason? Pleasure or business? But what business could Lomax have had, down by the docks, probably, so late at night?
The artists were in their usual spot. There seemed, however, to be an argument going on.
‘Now!’ he heard Marinetti’s angry voice. ‘Now he tells me!’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said a voice that was new to Seymour. It came from an upright, smart-looking man, new to the group, who didn’t seem a bit sorry. A thin smile played on his lips. It was almost as if he was enjoying Marinetti’s rage. ‘Mr Machnich, however, has had second thoughts.’
‘But he can’t have second thoughts. Not as late as this! When it was all agreed. Look, it’s happening on Saturday! Next Saturday!’
‘It will have to happen somewhere else,’ said the new man, still with his thin smile. ‘That’s all.’
‘But, Jesus, I’ve arranged it. We’d agreed!’
‘And now it’s disagreed.’
‘Machnich can’t do this to me!’
‘You’ll just have to find another place.’
‘There isn’t another place. Not at such short notice. And not as suitable as the Politeama. Look, it’s going to be big. There are going to be hundreds of people there. Only the Politeama will do.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but Mr Machnich has changed his mind.’
‘Look, there’s money in this. For him.’
‘I doubt it,’ said the new man, sceptically.
‘Money. You tell him that. Money! That’s the only thing that’ll interest that bastard.’
The other artists joined in.
‘Too true,’
‘You can say that again!’
‘This is important!’ said Marinetti, his voice rising. ‘I’ve got people coming from all over Europe.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the new man, his voice oozing doubt.
‘Yes!’ roared Marinetti. ‘You dumb-headed Bosnian! Can’t you understand? We shall be reading our Manifesto. This is the birth of a new movement. A movement which will change art, and the world, for ever!’
‘Art, is it? I don’t think Mr Machnich is very interested in art.’
‘Well, no, he wouldn’t be. But he is interested in money. Tell him there’s money in this.’
‘Not as much as there is in wrestling.’
‘Wrestling?’
‘That’s what he’ll be putting on instead.’
‘Wrestling!’
‘Yes. Serbia versus Austria. The place will be packed.’
‘Look, this was agreed months ago. He can’t pull out now.’
‘No?’
‘Look. I could run perhaps to just a little more money.’
‘No, you couldn’t. You can’t even run to what was agreed.’
‘Why is he doing this?’
‘Reason broke in. In the end.’
‘You talked him out of it. You bastard!’
‘He needs a little guidance occasionally.’
‘He needs a little guidance about keeping his word. But he wouldn’t be getting that from you, would he?’
The man began to get up.
‘It’s a waste of time talking,’ he said. ‘We’ve made up our minds.’
‘You dumb idiot! You’re turning down the chance of a lifetime!’
The man laughed.
‘We’re pulling out of a big flop. You’ll never fill the Politeama. Not with what you’re planning.’
‘You’re wrong, you’re wrong. I’ve sent out invitations. And I’ve had replies. Dozens of them. Hundreds.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘The Governor — ’
‘Well, I can tell you that he certainly won’t be coming.’
‘Oh, yes, he will.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘His wife is on the organizing committee.’
The man stopped.
‘What?’
‘On our committee. She’s interested in art. Not like you, you philistine bastard.’
The man turned and came back.
‘Are you having me on?’
‘No, I’m not. You wait and see. Just wait till I tell her that Machnich says we must scrap the whole thing because he can’t keep his word!’
‘If you’re lying to me — ’
‘Lying? To the man who has Machnich’s ear? Would I do that? I’d sooner spit in it.’
‘I shall check this — ’
‘Check all you like, you dumb idiot!’
The man hesitated.
‘You’re sure about this? Really sure?’
‘As sure as I am that you’re a stupid, ignorant — ’
‘The Governor?’
‘And the consuls. And the Chamber of Commerce. Everybody. Everybody who’s anybody.’
‘If you’re having me on -
‘The Governor. His wife has promised. And if it’s the Governor, it’s going to be everyone else, isn’t it?’
The man hesitated.
‘If you like,’ said Marinetti, ‘I’ll go round and tell her now. I’m sorry, Frau Kruger, but Machnich says — ’
‘All right, all right. All right, you can have it. You can have the Politeama for the evening.’
Thank you. It’s so nice of you to keep your word. And surprising.’
‘Shut up!’ said the new man, wavering still. ‘The Governor? You’re sure?’
‘And his wife,’ said Marinetti, beaming.
‘The consuls? The diplomatic riff-raff? They’re the ones who matter. You’re sure about them?’
‘If the Governor is there, so will they be.’
He made up his mind, finally.
‘All right then. Don’t cock it up.’
‘Shall I send Machnich an invitation?’
‘Why not?’ said the man, smiling his thin smile.
‘What a bastard!’ said Luigi.
‘Who is he?’ asked Seymour.
‘His name is Rakic. He does things for Machnich.’
‘He seems pretty confident that Machnich will agree to whatever he says.’
‘I don’t know why he should be. He hasn’t been here five minutes.’
‘And the sooner he goes away again, the better.’
‘They say he was in the army.’
‘Well, it certainly sounds like it. Let’s have a drink. To take the taste out of our mouths. Giuseppi!’
Seymour was going to leave but they insisted that he have one too. Marinetti pulled up a chair. Seymour sat down next to him.
‘What’s this you’re putting on?’
‘Ah! My Evening. Well. .’ began Marinetti enthusiastically.
The others moved away. They had heard it, Seymour suspected, many times before.
‘The first Futurist Evening!’
‘Futurist?’
‘That’s what we call ourselves. The Futurists. Art must look forward. Not back.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure.’
‘Art.
Seymour began to wish that he had moved away too.
Seymour went back to the Consulate. Koskash was, as he always seemed to be, bent over his desk. He laid his pen down.